


Heat of Battle

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="http://randomalia.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://randomalia.livejournal.com/"></a><b>randomalia</b>: this is as MAN-Archie as I can get this year, with more to come in 2007.</p><p>Originally posted 12-31-06</p>
    </blockquote>





	Heat of Battle

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://randomalia.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://randomalia.livejournal.com/)**randomalia** : this is as MAN-Archie as I can get this year, with more to come in 2007.
> 
> Originally posted 12-31-06

The ship is in disarray, the decks slick and wet with blood. Archie shrugs off the distracted attentions of the surgeon with a shake of his head and a jerk, moving closer to Captain Pellew. His ears ring with the sound of cannon fire and pistol charges, with shouted French and death cries.

Pellew is issuing orders, directing men in putting the ship to rights. He takes one look at Archie and shakes his head, ordering him below decks. He’ll have next watch with Bracegirdle aboard the French frigate, sailing toward Portsmouth, so he doesn’t protest – as if he would stand against his Captain – and moves below decks, making his way past men and boys and lobsters, on a quest for his bunk, though he knows, as the Captain should know, there is no sleep for him now with the blood pounding in his system, with the taste of French blood on his tongue.

The ward room is empty with everyone rife with projects and Archie moves to the table. Sitting is out of the question, so he pours himself a measure of wine and paces the room with it, wetting his lips with his tongue again and again without ever tasting the wine.

“Will you stop that infernal pacing, Mr. Kennedy, or do I have to shoot you where you stand?”

He looks up, surprised to see Edrington leaning against the passageway to the bunk room. His uniform is torn and bloody, the red coat cut away to reveal his white shirt, the pristine color marred with blood and ichor. “My Lord.”

“Is it always like that?” Edrington’s voice carries something in it that Archie can’t decipher, a tone of disbelief and disgust perhaps, the look on his face echoing those sentiments, though Archie thinks there’s something more behind his speech, behind his eyes.

“What, my Lord?”

“Savages. My God.” Edrington shakes his head, his carefully coiffed hair falling in disarray, spilling from his queue.

“The French?” Archie almost smiles as Edrington’s eyes meet his, though it fades in the heat of the other man’s glare. “Or us, my Lord?”

“No discipline. You fell on them like dogs.”

Archie laughs, the sound deepening at Edrington’s aghast look. “It is not the straight lines and structure of His Majesty’s Army, my Lord?” There’s a bitter shift to his tone and he finally takes a sip of his wine. “Would you have us stand back and let them board then, my Lord? Let them run us through while we took the time to reload? Here it is cannon then gun then sword, my Lord, it is blood and dying in ways far worse than a bullet. It is splinters that tear away flesh and men and boys spread in pieces across the decks. It is lost limbs and lost lives, my Lord. It is not pretty, it is not disciplined.” He tosses the wine glass, listening to is shatter against the floor as he advances on Edrington, heat and anger and frustration and need burning hot inside him. “It is our life, and for the French and far too many of our men, it is their death.”

“You enjoy it.”

“I do my duty, my Lord.” He moves closer, closing the distance between them so that he can smell the blood and powder and sea on Edrington, can feel the residual ghosts of fear and excitement emanating from his skin. “What is asked of me, what is ordered of me. Your battles are fought from a distance, with no blood on your hands and in your face and in your teeth. Your battles are bloodless and neat. Ours are wet and hot, my Lord, blood that burns hot as wood and metal in our skin. Hands slick with it, ours and others, as we shove swords deep in their gullet, as we gut them and toss them uncaring into the sea.”

“I have blood on my hands, Mr. Kennedy.” Edrington smiles, eyes flashing with anger and heat of his own, battle scars visible in their depths. “And you’re a liar, Mr. Kennedy. You _do_ care.”

“After, my Lord,” he breathes heavily, admitting this painful now in the rush, the after effects not yet faded. “I’ll care after. But right now, it burns. Blood lust and battle glory.” Archie takes Edrington’s hand and presses it to his heart, lets him feel the pounding pulse of it. “It burns, my Lord. Feel it burn.”

Edrington opens his mouth and Archie silences him with a kiss, hot and hard and vicious, as swift as the slice of his sword. Edrington stumbles back a step to the bulkhead and Archie pushes in, his hand tight around Edrington’s wrist, sliding his palm down from Archie’s heart to his breeches. Edrington’s hand constricts, fingers framing Archie’s arousal, the slight movement bringing a groan to Archie’s lips.

“Feel it, my Lord. Feel…feel me.” The kiss is bruising, painful as they fight for dominance. Edrington employs tongue and teeth and the hard stroke of his palm over Archie’s cock, pressing the flesh through the thick placket of Archie’s breeches. Archie fists his hand around Edrington’s queue, tugging at the hair until Edrington groans and submits, his head falling back and exposing the line of his throat to Archie’s hungry, desperate mouth.

Edrington gasps, a rough chuckle slipping past his lips as his fingers undo Archie’s placket, brass buttons undone and shoved aside to find Archie’s fevered skin. “Wh-where is your Mr. Hornblower?”

Archie jerks Edrington’s hair and meets his gaze. “The only Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy you should be concerned with, my Lord, is me.” He kisses him again, harder than before, tasting blood in his mouth, on his tongue. Hot and ripe and rich, better than French as he unfastens Edrington’s breeches as well, shoving fabric aside to take Edrington tightly in hand.

“Like a prize ship, am I, Mr. Kennedy?” Edrington’s breathless voice belays the hauteur of his words. The hard pressure of his lips on Archie’s jaw, the frantic suck and slide of his mouth on Archie’s neck coupled with the rough pull of Archie’s cock tell Archie that Lord Edrington is the same beneath the veneer, just as hot and ripe with blood and lust as Archie, as any man. “And do you know what to do with the prize you’ve claimed?”

It’s surprisingly easy, Archie knows, to turn a man, bend him to pressure, to will, to stronger desire and even easier is this, to turn a willing man. Edrington groans as Archie releases him, the sound buried in Archie’s hard kiss. He breaks away and turns him, red and white and blond and flesh against the bulk head, the shadow of his cock a hint between spread legs.

Archie knocks over the unlit lamp and dips his fingers in the spill, the oil slick on his fingers, on his cock. He pushes Edrington’s shirt up his back, holding it there with enough pressure to keep it still, keep him still as he slides a finger over the puckered opening then pushes his cock to the flesh, reaching around to wrap his hand around Edrington’s cock as he slides inside him.

There is a distant crash as wood clatters to the deck, and Archie groans at the sound, at the tight press of flesh surrounding him. He fucks as he fights, with no mercy and no quarter given. He pushes deep inside Edrington, countering the motion with the slide of his hand. Edrington bucks back against him, demanding as much as he takes and Archie groans again, burying the sound in the spray of blood that stains Edrington’s uniform.

This is battle won and lost, this is where men are made. He’s had this lesson since he set foot aboard _Justinian_ and learned it well on the run and in prisons. Men are men and men surrender, give in even when there is everything to win and nothing to lose. Edrington groans his surrender, his body jerking, his cock in Archie’s hand tight with hot spasms as he spills himself across the boards.

Archie’s body jerks in response, the flesh around him tightening, pain and pleasure coiling tightly until it explodes like a trap sprung, a sail unfurled, a throat severed. He leans back, arching into Edrington’s body, pulsing deep and hot, like blood in the other man’s veins.

Pulling back, Archie frees himself and reaches for his breeches, doing them up and leaving his shirt untucked. He walks over to the wine, pouring two glasses this time, not hesitating to take a sip as he offers the other to Edrington. “His Majesty is not above showing benevolence to his prizes, my Lord.” He sips again and smiles, leaning in to lick a hint of blood from Edrington’s lip. “Lucky for you, neither am I.”  



End file.
